


Won't Leave You In The Dark

by mara_joy



Series: No Keia La, No Keia Po, A Mau Loa [2]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: S2E10 Ki'ilua, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mara_joy/pseuds/mara_joy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny is thinking of that last smile that Steve flashed him the day he left. He keeps it with him as he steps on North Korean soil and thinks, this is it. This is all or nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't Leave You In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Betad by the amazing stephaniejane and pluxaplong.
> 
> "No Keia La, No Keia Po, A Mau Loa" is From This Day, From This Night, Forever More.

If Steve was dead, he was going to kill him.  
   
No seriously. He was going to kill the bastard dead.  
   
 _(Do me a favor, all right. Take care of yourself.)_  
   
He’d seen something flash in Steve’s eyes, before that smart-ass grin, that smirk that he did so well took over.  
   
 _(I’ll think about you the whole time.)_  
   
He should’ve called him on it. Goddamn it, he should’ve called him on it.  
   
He shouldn’t have turned his back on Steve and just continued on as if his partner wasn’t going to North goddamn Korea without him there to have his back. He should’ve run after Steve and given the too-loyal asshole a reason to make sure he’d damn well come back.  
   
And goddamn it, Jenna. What were you thinking? What the fucking fuck were you thinking?  
   
It won’t have been the last time he was going to see his partner. That softly spoken ‘thanks’ that Steve probably didn’t even hear won’t have been the last words he would say to him.  
   
They weren’t going on a goddamn recovery mission, goddamn it. He could see it on a couple of the SEALs’ faces. He could see that was what they were thinking. He wanted to grab one of them, shake the ever living hell out of him, and just scream ‘He’s alive! Do you hear me? Go to hell, he’s fucking alive.’  
   
SuperSeal didn’t know how to die. And there was no way in hell he could think otherwise.  
   
He couldn’t even think of how he’d tell Grace he brought Uncle Steve home but—  
   
No. There was no way in hell. Just no damned way.  
   
He gripped the rifle in his hands until his knuckles turned white, tried to ignore the reeling of his stomach. North Korea’s all-over jungle filled his vision as he looks out of the chopper, the sound of the rotors is a constant and rapid _whoop, whoop, whoop._  
   
His mind races and he knows if he weren’t holding onto the rifle so damn tight, if he didn’t have something he could physically focus on, he’d be losing his shit.  
   
He tries not to think about the fact that he’s sitting in the same space where God knows how many men took their last breath almost forty years ago. Of the men whose lives stained the nuts and bolts and steel because of something they had no business being a part of in the first place.  
   
But duty was duty was duty. And that sense of loyalty was what made those men great.  
   
He tries to see past ghosts who had given that loyalty to something— _for_ someone—only to be betrayed in the end. He refuses to see Steve’s body in their place, won’t let the starting thought of the similarity finish in his head.  
   
He has to clench his jaw and swallow, has to consciously force the nausea down. He closes his eyes to the decades-old bloodstains and ignores the phantom screams of pain and fading heartbeats. He concentrates on that last smile Steve flashed him and the steady rhythm of _whoop, whoop, whoop._  
   
It’s what he keeps with him as they land. It’s what he thinks about as his feet hit North Korean soil. This is it. This is all or nothing.  
   
This is everything, or he can’t imagine what the rest will be like.  
   
He’s got his baby girl’s ‘Danno’ in his head, playing on repeat as they single-file through leaves and branches. He’s got the feeling of her arms around his neck as she gave him one last hug the hour before they left, and not the dank, humidity of the compound around him. He’s got the smell of her hair wafting through his senses, and not the dirty, muskiness as they clear every room. He’s got the sound of her _‘Bring Uncle Steve home, Danno. He’s supposed to have fun with us this weekend’_ in his head, drowning out the _‘what if, what if, what if, what if.’_  
   
And even that’s not enough to prevent the way his heart freezes in his chest when he catches sight of Jenna in the last room.  
   
It’s not enough to stop the rushing in his ears; it’s not enough to stop him from damn near hitting his knees.  
   
It’s all he can do to not empty the contents of his stomach right there. He’s got this horrible knife in his gut, twisting and stabbing deeper and he can’t breathe from this huge tight band that’s suddenly wound its way around his entire upper half, keeping him from any movement.  
   
It’s all he can do to just stand there, unmoving and shattering with _no, no, no, no, no, no, no_ running a litany in his head.  
   
He’s terrified to look past her and deeper into the room. He’s terrified that doing so will hold the proof of the promise he wasn’t able to keep: a broken figure lying in a long-congealed puddle of blood, going cold just like Jenna, with the same holes that aren’t supposed to be on either of their bodies.  
   
But then Joe’s cleared the room and he finds himself saying, “It’s Jenna.”  
   
Joe bends to check her pulse and he wants to scream, _why, why? She’s gone!_  
   
“Still warm.”  
   
And with those words, there’s a spark of something like hope that nudges a tiny break through the horror.  
   
As Joe and Jacks step out of the room, he gives himself a second to offer something up for the woman in front of him. Lets himself grieve for the Jenna he spoke to for those few seconds—the terrified, sobbing Jenna who had so brokenly and readily admitted she screwed up, the Jenna who brought him here.  
   
As they get further from the compound and closer to where Kono had said the convoy was heading, he begs whoever was listening that none of this would be for nothing.  
   
He feels heat against his face as he helps Chin and Joe light the Humvee. Wade and Jacks are keeping look-out, and the other two members of SEAL Team 9 are covering their backs.  
   
He’s got sweat soaking through his t-shirt and his bad knee is swearing violently at him from the way he has to not-quite crouch.  
   
He uses the annoyance and the pain of it to keep himself in line, to keep himself from cracking. He can hear the low growl of the oncoming vehicles; can hear twigs and leaves crunching under the weight.  
   
He wonders how this is going to end.  
   
And then the bullets are flying, his rifle is bucking his hands and all that’s in his head is silence.  
   
He hears Joe yell for them to move in. He sees the members of Team 9 converging, Chin sliding down the embankment from where he was shooting. He knows this is it. If Steve isn’t in one of those Humvees, this is it.  
   
He’s got _please, please, please_ a desperate chant in his head. He checks the first one.  
   
Nothing.  
   
Won’t let himself think or feel anything. It’s a tenuous grip he’s got on control, and he wonders how long it’ll last.  
   
Chin’s got the second Humvee and he ignores the dark, dark feeling he gets when Chin shakes his head.  
   
He wonders what the other man is thinking. He wonders, underneath that calm exterior, just how much Mr. Zen himself is freaking the fuck out.  
   
He rounds the third vehicle, rifle at the ready, heart pounding in his chest and bile rising in his throat. He’s back to begging again, _please God_ and _please, PLEASE God._  
   
His hand is steadier than he thought he was capable of when he reaches for the back covering. He hesitates for barely the breadth of a second— _God, please, please, fuck, please_ —grips it tight in his hand and roughly flips it up.  
   
And this is so, so, so much more than seeing Jenna’s corpse. This is more than _holy shit_ and that noisy rush in his ears; this is more than nausea and the weakness hitting him straight in the legs that he almost drops.  
   
This is his world exploding.  
   
He thinks he yells to the others that he found Steve, that Steve is alive—fucking _alive_. He’s climbing into the Humvee before he really realizes that he’s even moving. All he knows is that Steve is there and breathing; Steve’s looking lost and unsure and so goddamned vulnerable. Steve’s beaten bloody and looking thoroughly like _what the hell…_ and all he wants to do is wrap himself around his partner and never let go.  
   
“ _Danny_.”  
   
There was so much in that one word. How the hell could Steve always put so much into that word? How could he lay as much into it now like he did all those months ago? When Steve was surrounded by cops and sirens and flashing lights, handcuffs tight around his wrists. He still remembers the ugly bruises from when he had high-tailed it to lockup.  
   
He remembers the feeling of _shit, shit, shit. SHIT._  
   
And now, with blood dried on Steve’s face and looking up at him with an expression that was nothing but wonder and _are you really here?_ , he just couldn’t freaking figure out how Steve could put all of himself into the one word that was his name.  
   
God, they were such damned idiots.  
   
“Where’s Wo Fat?”  
   
He’s going to kill the son of a bitch.  
   
“Just shut up, will you.” He spit it out like acid. It’s an order and a plea at the same time; a fiery rope, winding around and tightening around his neck until he _can’t  breathe._ It’s anger and relief and everything in between.  
   
He’s shaking now. He knows it. His fingers keep slipping on the rope and all he’s thinking is _come on, come on, come on_. _Let’s go, let’s get you out of here._  
   
 _It’s harsh in his head, ripping like serrated teeth through him and he’s surprised to hear himself say it out loud._  
   
He’s not thinking straight, he knows it. He can’t control the desperation— _can’t_ _see him good enough, gotta get him out so I can just see him_ —and he grabs Steve’s arms roughly to haul him up. He wants to just _hurt_ himself when Steve’s eyes roll into the back of his head the second after he gets vertical and he can’t move fast enough to get a better grip on his partner before Steve is going down.  
   
He would’ve done anything, eaten pineapple on pizza for a month, not eaten malasadas for two, to go back in time, do it all over again and never have to hear the sound that tore from Steve’s throat when he hit the ground.  
   
He does drop to his knees this time just as Steve retches around those awful noises that are tearing their way out of his throat.  
   
He sees Chin out of the corner, waves a hand. Thinks, _I’ve got him. Just let me—I’ve got him._  
   
 “Steve.” He reaches out, lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and feels the tremors under his palm. “Damn it.” He tries to guide Steve to lay flat from the ball he’s put himself in, and the choked off cry of pain makes him clench his jaw. “I know, babe. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” He can hear his voice is ragged and he forces it even. “I need to have a look at you. Can you let me do that? Hey, hey, look at me.”  
   
His hands are moving over Steve’s face before he’s decided he was going to touch. His fingers are sweeping gently against Steve’s cheek, over the sweat and dried blood. He trails them over Steve’s forehead, staying away from those ugly cuts, tries to soothe that line of agony away. He brings his other hand up to cup at that dirty jaw, running his thumb along the line of it.  
   
“Open your eyes, babe. Look at me.”  
   
When Steve just draws further into himself, breathing harsh and through gnashing teeth together, he hates himself a little more for doing what he does next.  
   
“Steve. Steven. McGarrett!” His tone is sharp and his hands are gripping tight around the arm available to him. Steve lets out another whimper under him. “On me!”  
   
And he swears to God, the first chance he gets, he’s going to plant his fist in the wall for the way his tone made Steve stiffen like a board, how it opens Steve’s eyes, glazed in pain.  
   
He forces himself to smile. “That’s it.” He lays a hand on the side of Steve’s neck and his stomach drops at the feel of cool, clammy skin. He can’t remember if it had felt that way when he had been touching Steve’s face, son of a bitch, he can’t remember. He could see the pale skin, even in the covered Humvee, knew if he could see Steve’s eyes, he’d see pupils that weren’t the same size. He can feel a rapid pulse under his fingertips. He remembers enough of his Medical Responders course to know those things together aren’t good.  
   
Steve is looking at him, concerned, and he wants to do something about that look on his partner’s face. Damn idiot, Steve was the one looking like something hell bitch-slapped.  
   
He pushes away his feeling of fond exasperation. “This is going to suck, but I need to check you out.”  
   
“Danno—“ He swears he will never again give the man shit for using that nickname even if Steve sounded like crap, “I’m not that easy.”  
   
“I’ll still respect you in the morning. “ He isn’t sure if he wants to slug Steve for that stupid grin, or feel it against his lips.  
   
And then his heart is pounding, he feels the blood coursing red-hot through his veins and he wants to destroy something.  
   
The bruises are terrible. Deep and huge. He can see the way Steve’s entire ribcage is an awful painting of mottled red and purple; can see the way it curls around his sides. He can see at least three distinctive marks among the bruises and he’s been doing this job long enough, he knows what specific kinds of burns look like. He sees the skin rubbed raw and bloody at Steve’s wrists, and the ugly red ring around his neck.  
   
The rage is vicious. Burning. He can feel it uncurling in his gut, radiating out, dark and primal tendrils of blind fury that constricts his lungs and his heart.  
   
Wo Fat is going to suffer. As soon as they find that son of bitch, screw civilized practice, the hell with due process. He is going to make him _hurt._  
   
But for now, he’s got Steve under his hand. Pale, shaking, and barely holding it together. He’s going to fix this man and he’s going to _destroy_ the other.  
   
He hears himself speaking. Rambling really. Shooting out words as soon as he thinks them—and few he doesn’t really finish thinking before they’ve found their way out of his mouth.  
   
 Steve is looking at him like he’s the only thing keeping him together, and he can take that.  
   
“That bad, huh?” Of course, the man can read everything on his face.  
   
He can’t keep his voice from breaking when he responds. “Never again, Steven. You will never do this shit to me again.” It’s equal parts _please, I can’t handle losing you like this again_ and _you bastard, I will kick your ass, I swear it._  
   
Chin moves quickly when he speaks to him. He looks tense and edgy. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are drawn tight. And he curses himself for forgetting that he’s not the only one who has spent the last two days in a state of anxiety and too-scared-to-hope.  
   
The way that Steve looks when he realizes it wasn’t just him but _his team_ that came for him, punches into his gut. He really needs to prove to the stubborn ass that he fucking _matters_ and that’s why he needs to stop being fucking _insane._  
   
“Don’t even, brah.” Chin’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “There was never any question.”  
   
Chin Ho Kelly, he thinks. You are a good, good man.  
   
Together, they get Steve up and standing. They support him for those first few seconds while he gets his bearings, trade looks when Steve tries to take a good breath—and fails, he can’t keep himself from thinking—and no, by the look in Chin’s eyes, he’s definitely not alone in having ‘what if’ and ‘maybe’ as a haunting echo in his mind.  
   
 “Easy,” he murmurs and it’s as much for Steve as it is for Chin. “Take a minute.”  
   
Steve’s got his eyes closed and his head fallen forward, his breathing harsh and rapid.  
   
Then Joe is there and looking at Steve. “You gonna make it?” The question is firm, but the concern is so, so clear in it.  
   
He can feel the instant Steve hears his mentor. He’s not even finished with the question, and Steve is just about at attention.  
   
“Yes sir.” And damned if he wanted to thump the idiot and kiss him at the same time.  
   
Steve leans heavy on him as they set out through the jungle to their pick-up point. He can hear Steve’s breaths becoming shallow; occasionally, he can hear the quiet little moans that Steve just isn’t able to stop. And when he hears the sound of the chopper sneaking past the thick underbrush, he has to tighten his arm around Steve’s back when Steve sags.  
   
It’s relief. Just overwhelming, he’s-breathless-with-it relief when the chopper is blasting wind and noise in their faces. He can’t fault Lori for losing herself for a second as she jumps out and wraps her arms around Steve.  
   
He’s familiar with that kind of desperation, and possible enemy presence or not, that split second of ‘thank God’ is just plain _needed_.  
   
In the next minute Joe’s helping Steve up into the chopper, following the other SEALs, and it’s him between Steve, North Korea, and everything that’s in North Korea. Everything that put those bruises and cuts on Steve’s body and that look of disbelief which still has yet to leave his face as he stares off into space.  
   
It’s only when they’re in the air that he allows himself to feel the weariness. His hand shakes as he reaches up to rub at his eyes. Chin has this look on his face, and the only other time he has seen this expression was when he unlatched the bomb from his friend’s neck. It’s a look that says _too close. Too damn close._  
   
Steve is cocking his weapon. Readying it. Of course he is. Even when he’s beat to hell, and looking like he can’t keep his head up much longer, his hands are steady and deadly as they go through the steps.  
   
And then, Steve is looking at him. Through the blood, grime, and sweat he sees _Danno, you came for me_.  
   
He wants to say so much. O _f course, I came for you, you jackass_ and _you stupid idiot, I wasn’t just gonna leave you_ and _we were almost too late_ and _you’re never so much as going island-hopping without me._  
   
What he says instead is, “Nah, don’t.” he waves his hand and tries to make those uneasy feelings still in his gut go with it. “You—“ _you clueless bastard, don’t you know I love you?_ “You can thank me when we get back to Oahu.”  
   
And he hopes Steve hears the _home,_ _when I get you home and make sure you’re really alive._  
   
Then Chin’s getting married, and Steve is smiling, and everybody is joking and he can just about believe that they’re okay.  
   
But it couldn’t be more than a minute or so after Steve had laughed with the rest of them before he sees Chin look more than a little alarmed.  
   
“Steve? What is it, brah?” Chin’s making a move to give his rifle to one of the SEALs and using his other hand to reach out to Steve. “Hey, Steve.”  
   
He snaps his head down and sees that his partner is trembling and what little color he had, has blanched out to too damn pale. His eyes are unfocused and glassy. He watches as Steve drops his head slowly against Joe’s leg as his arms are falling limply to the ground.  
   
His heart just _drops._  
   
He throws the gun to the chopper floor and drops to his knees beside Steve. “Steve?” He grabs Steve’s face with both hands, feels panic welling up when he sees Steve try to focus on him, and fail.  
   
He reaches up to Steve’s neck, curses when he feels a pulse too damn fast, too damn weak. “Don’t do this, Steve. Not now. Goddamn you.” He’s frantic; he can’t breathe past this horrible feeling of his world falling around him.  
   
“Come on, babe. Focus on me. Look at me now. Please. Look at me, damn it. I’m not letting you give up. Just a little bit longer. Steve. Steve. Steven!” It all fires out of him, quick and harsh and with no small amount of panic. He realizes his fingers are white against Steve’s jaw but he can’t gentle them and Steve is just staring at him. He doesn’t want the apology that’s so stark in those eyes.  
   
Steve blinks once, tries to hold on. But then there’s one last look—a look too final—and they’re falling closed, lashes dark against white cheeks.  
   
“No. No. No!” It rips out of him, wild and intense just as Jacks is grabbing Steve’s shoulders, taking him from against Joe’s legs and laying him on the floor. As soon as Steve is clear from him, Joe is standing up and grabbing some kind of bag.  
   
He’s got the vague thought in his head that’s wondering where the hell that had been but then Jacks is kneeling across from him and pressing down roughly on Steve’s abdomen in four places.  
   
The look on the SEAL’s face makes him want to puke. Jacks reaches for Steve’s wrist, feels for the pulse there, and the frown turns even darker. Then his view is momentarily disrupted by Joe hurriedly spreading an emergency blanket over Steve and moving down to stuff something under Steve’s legs to bring them up.  
   
“I got rigidity in both upper quadrants, abdominal guarding. No radial pulse. Carotid weak and thready.” Jacks words are curt. Delivered even-toned.  
   
He wants to slug him. He wants to curse and put his fists into something. He wants Steve not looking gray under the purple; he wants this whole damn to never have happened.  
   
He wants so many things and he’s so goddamned terrified he lost his chance to have any of them.  
   
He hates the rest of it. He hates the too loud sound of the rotors; he has to strain to hear those shallow breaths, even as close he is. He hates the too small space; he can’t have Steve in his arms, hoping that the touch of him will be enough to keep Steve alive. He hates that the only thing he can do is hold tight onto Steve’s hand, all the while thinking he won’t let go.  
   
It’s too damn long before the chopper is landing and they’re placing Steve onto the stretcher that Frank grabbed from _somewhere_. Steve is completely limp and heavy. He refuses to call it dead weight.  
   
He feels like complete and utter shit when Kono runs out of her little communications shack only to come to horrified stop in front of them. How could they have forgotten to send her a transmission? Her mouth is open, hand tight against her lips. He can see the tears gather in her eyes as she shakes her head in denial. Before he can reassure her though, Chin is rushing to her to grab her shoulders— _he’s still alive_ , he hears Chin saying, _but we need to get him to a hospital_. _Now._  
   
God love this woman who he’s damn sure is a reincarnated warrior princess. She gets her shit together in that next second, runs to them and takes a side of the stretcher herself, eyes daring anybody to argue. Nobody does.  
   
He’s not sure how much later it is when they rush into some hospital, Joe carrying the stretcher’s head, he and Chin on one side, Kono and Jacks on the other, and Gutches at the feet. Frank is saying that it’s a humanitarian mission gone wrong, that they’ve got a man in severe shock and somebody better get their asses to work.  
   
It’s only when Steve has disappeared behind the swinging doors, a flurry of activity and words he doesn’t understand around his partner’s body, that he runs outside, bends double and loses everything he’s eaten that week. He feels his body shake with the onslaught, that tight hold on control he’s kept for this long slipping through his fingers like mist.  
   
He gives a last spit and straightens again, thrusting his hand through his hair. When he turns, he sees Kono, pale and as scared as he’s ever seen her, including the time she lost her badge.  
   
He doesn’t say a word, just lifts his arms and she goes into them without hesitation.  
   
They have no control over this. He isn’t used to not having some semblance of control—not since he’s joined this taskforce—and he forgets sometimes, she’s just a young cop who has never been faced with possibly losing one of her own.  
   
The words _severe concussion, lacerated liver and spleen, internal bleeding and several broken ribs_ filter through his mind an hour later. They’ve managed the worst injuries, but this hospital isn’t equipped for the long-term. Steve is only just out of the woods and they’re in for a long, long trip home.  
   
When Steve’s in front of him again, he’s got a tube stuffed down his throat and a ventilator is doing all the breathing. He’s sedated, for the long trip, they’d told him, to help his body heal, to give his a mind a break. All he knows is that crinkle of agony between Steve’s eyes isn’t there and his face is relaxed in sleep instead of tense with distress. Steve isn’t hurting. And that’s really all that matters to him. .  
   
He doesn’t want to think about the consequences of this trip when they get back to Hawaii. The SEALs’ CO had called in a couple of favors with some friends in high places, Joe called in on a few of his, but they all knew it might not be enough.  
   
All he wants to concentrate on is Steve’s hand in his. He’s got the _whoosh, whoosh_ of the ventilator behind him; the sight of Steve’s chest rising and falling rhythmically in front of him. He’s got promises to make—and one to keep—and soon as Steve is awake, there are a few words he is going to say.  
   
But for now, Kono’s head is in Chin’s lap and Lori is curled on the floor across the way, none of them able to fight off the exhaustion anymore. As Steve continues to fight for his life on the stretcher before him, he looks at the necklace in his free hand.  
   
The surgeon had handed it to him before they’d wheeled Steve off. Frank had said they’d found it in his pocket.  
   
It’s tiny and the gold is tarnished with a bloodstain. There’s sacrifice in that stain. There’s the sound of a broken apology, gasping breaths and frantic sobs; he can still hear it all in his head. There’s pain and the sound of someone’s world ending.  
   
But there’s hope, too. Hope made possible by that same sacrifice, by the choice that was made when she made that call from across the world. He hopes Jenna was able to find peace in that at the end, knowing at least she had tried to make things right.  
   
He rubs his thumb over the cross and he couldn’t explain how it looked like it shined for a split second. It could’ve been his mind playing tricks on him, his thumbing moving it slightly and the gold catching the slight light. Or something.  
   
He places the cross in Steve’s hand, curls the fragile chain around the gold and closes Steve’s fingers around it. Brings Steve’s hand to his lips, wants to believe that somewhere in the unconsciousness, Steve feels it.  
   
Wants to hope that there’s a beacon of light Steve can see …something to lead his partner home. Wants to know that he can fix this, wants to call Steve on that look in his eyes the day he left for North Korea.  
   
He wants so many things and now, he knows, he’s got the chance to have them.


End file.
